Page 55 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

“Hi, Rebecca. You may not remember me, but we met at—”

“I remember you, Stella. How are you?”

I admit that I’m no great actress, but her smile contains all the sincerity of the evil Queen’s when she disguises herself as a witch and offers Snow White the poisoned apple.

“Ella. I’m good. Just picking up some shoes.”

“Oh, for the Black Ball next week?” she says, gesturing for me to lead the way to the front of the store.

“The what?” I say without thinking.

But I’ve made an unforced error, and the subtle, triumphant gotcha in her expression as she joins me at the counter proves it.

“My mistake,” she says, setting her things down. “I thought you were still with Ryker.”

“I am,” I say, hanging on to my pleasant smile by a frayed thread.

“Well, that’s odd.” A delicate frown from Rebecca. “I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned it to give you plenty of time to find your dress. It’s their biggest charitable event of the year. Black tie. The ladies wear white.”

My mind is still reeling from the possible implications of this information—will he invite me? Doesn’t he want me to come? Is he, God forbid, about to dump me?—when Sheila, who’s over at a side table still wrapping my shoes, glances around.

“I’ll be right with you, ladies.”

“Take your time,” Rebecca tells her.

“Are you consigning today?” Sheila asks her, eyeballing the stack of clothes with appreciation.

“I am. A lot of things from last summer that I won’t wear again. I went a little crazy at Neiman’s last week. My closet can’t hold everything. And these are still good clothes with a lot of wear left in them. I want someone else to enjoy them.”

Rebecca says all this with an airy humblebrag tone that catapults me right back to some of the more humiliating moments of my childhood. Like when the kids in my sixth-grade class worked their pampered little fingers off on the Thanksgiving food drive for some of the needy scholarship students at the school and I turned out to be one of the students in question. Or when we went on a class trip to Washington D.C. and one of my friends bought me a T-shirt from the souvenir shop because she knew I wouldn’t have the money for my own souvenir. I was touched and grateful for the gesture, but she sure gave herself plenty of pats on the back for her generosity.

“Matter of fact, I have my gown from last year’s ball right here, if you’d like to see it, Ella. You may have to shorten it, but it’s a gorgeous gown. Stella McCartney.”

Translation?

I’m a czarina, Ella, doll. And you may be able to scrape together the money for a pair of used designer shoes, but you’re still just a serf in Manolo Blahniks. Sorry.

I blink, taking an extra second or two to gather my thoughts. You know me and my pride well enough by now to understand that I would rather design myself a toilet paper dress to wear to the ball than accept this woman’s hand-me-downs. Luckily, I’ve had plenty of practice navigating situations like this.

“What an offer,” I say. “I can’t begin to tell you what that means to me. Unfortunately, I need to get back to work, so…”

I turn away under the pretext of grabbing my credit card, but she doesn’t take the hint. People like this never do.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, snapping her fingers. “You work at that little bakery nearby, don’t you? What’s the name? Vicki’s?”

“Valentina’s.”

“Valentina’s. That’s it. I’m strictly no carbs, but I’d love to check it out. You have herbal tea, don’t you?”

Herbal tea. As if anyone stops by a European bakery for herbal tea.

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Perfect. I’ll see you down there in a few minutes, then. I’m sure I’ll work up a thirst by the time I’m done in here.”

“Wonderful,” I say, straining my cheek muscles in my ongoing efforts to maintain my pleasant smile as I pay for my shoes and leave.

“This is bullshit,” I tell Aunt Gilda a few minutes later when I return to Valentina’s with my shoes in hand. Luckily, we’re still in the post-lunch lull between customers, so we have a minute to talk.

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